The Eagles' Brood

XV

The door of my father's office stood open and the sentry on duty there saluted smartly as I approached. I returned the salute and stepped into the doorway, rapping my knuckles lightly on the door post as I saw my father in his usual position at his table, his head bent over an unfinished report. He looked up under his brows and grunted at me.

"Ah! You're back, good. Have a seat. I'll be with you in a moment."

I took off my helmet and made myself comfortable, looking around at the Spartan austerity of this tiny cubicle where General Picus Britannicus spent so' much of his working life. The room measured less than four good paces long by the same in width and held nothing but my father's work table, two chairs, two wooden chests bound with iron, and his own stool. Along the back wall ran a double shelf that held some bound books, a pile of reports and some rolled maps. His swordbelt, helmet and cloak hung from wooden pegs in the wall beside the door, and a large leather bucket by his feet served as a receptacle for anything he did not want to keep lying around. I looked long at the battered table on which he was writing; it was as much a part of my father as anything else he owned. Long and narrow, it formed a partitioned box two handsbreadths deep and sat on two collapsible trestles that fitted into slots fashioned to hold them on the underside of the table. It could be locked with a spring-loaded tumbler lock, and it went with him everywhere he went, loaded upon the commissary wagon. On campaign, it held the same place in his tent that it held here within his office.

On the wall at his back, above the double shelves, hung a simple wooden cross, a gift from his old friend Bishop Alaric, and I wondered again, as I did each time I came here, at the strength of the faith of men that had turned this symbol of shame and degradation into a symbol of triumph and love.

There had never been anything admirable about a cross in Roman eyes. Since the beginnings of time it has stood for the direst punishment a criminal could suffer. Death on the cross meant death by slow degrees of consummate agony as the force of gravity dragged inexorably at the victim's body, tearing the bones from their sockets, ripping joints and sinews, searing his brain with pain that dragged on with no respite until death, which came more often from thirst and starvation than from any other cause, and thirst and starvation are slow ways to die.

The Christ, they said, had died in three short hours, nailed to his cross. If that were true, he had been fortunate and had barely known the pain of crucifixion—some men screamed for days up there. He had been fortunate, or he had had help. The spearpoint that pierced his side might have been premature, and might have been heavily handled. It should have been a mere test to see if blood still flowed in the veins of the condemned man, for while blood flowed, life remained, and while life remained the body stayed on the cross. I have heard people swear it was the nails that killed him. That is flat untrue. Nails through the wrists and ankles will cripple and maim, but they will not cause death. That would have been too merciful a death for someone sentenced to the cross. Others said the flogging he received had caused his death. That might have some truth in it, especially if the man was already weak, but this man was the Son of God. How could he, then, be weak within Himself? Besides, I knew about the skill of Roman floggers. They had centuries of tradition behind their art and knew precisely how far they could go without causing fatal damage. My father's voice broke in upon my thoughts.

"How is your foundling?"

I snapped back to the present. "Cassandra? Oh, she's well." I tried to keep my voice casual and betray none of the emotions that filled me, but I was unsuccessful, for his eyebrow rose immediately.

"She is...well, is she? It pleases me to hear that. When will she be well enough to visit us here in Camulod?"

"I.. .I do not know, Father." I made my face as grave as I could, wishing him to think I still had grave reservations about her overall health. "I could not guess with any confidence. She is still...weak, in some ways."

"Aye. And quite strong in others, I can see." His voice was heavy with irony and I felt my face flush.

"You sent for me, sir."

"Aye. I did. For several reasons, the first of which is the least important in real terms. This barbarian, the Scot. What do you intend to do with him?"

"Do with him?" The question caught me unprepared. "What do you mean?"

He looked at me, wide-eyed, his face reflecting an uncharacteristic bewilderment as he admitted, "I don't know what I mean. I was hoping you would help me define what I mean. You have managed to saddle us with a useless mouth to feed and a responsibility to guard this man for years. I only hope you have some idea of what's involved here. Have you thought about it?" In spite of his bewilderment, his frown indicated that here was matter for serious consideration.

I nodded. "Of course I have."

"And?"

I shrugged, trying to put conviction into my tone. "I have decided to offer him the opportunity to pass his time here usefully."

"How, in God's name? The man's an Outlander and an enemy!" That was almost a bark.

I shrugged again, recognizing the repetition and attempting unsuccessfully to stifle the movement before it was complete. "I don't know yet."

"Not as a soldier, then?"

"No...I don't know! Perhaps, or perhaps as a servant of some kind."

"A servant? Caius, the man is a warrior and a king's son, and a Scot, to boot. Trying to make a servant out of him would be akin to training a grown wolf to act as guard dog to a child! It is not in his nature to be a servant. He will never submit to that."

"Well, perhaps a soldier, then."

"Trained to our ways?" I almost flinched at the scorn in his voice. "The way the Romans taught their enemies to overwhelm them? I tell you, lad, you teach this man to fight the way we do, and he'll go home and teach his kinsmen how to beat us."

I shook my head at him. "No, Father, that he won't. I would not be so stupid as to raise a viper in my bosom. I intend to talk with him today. I locked him up as soon as he arrived to let him think about imprisonment. I hope he will see reason and decide that he has more to gain by working with us than by mouldering in a cell. We will see. I'll inform you later how the meeting goes. What else did you want to talk about?"

"Uther," he growled. "There's still no word from him. I'm starting to worry."

"Why?" I had not even begun to grow concerned. "No news is good news, in this case. If Uther had been killed or defeated, we would know of it by now. Lot's forces would be everywhere, drunk with victory."

My father looked unconvinced. "Well, you may be right," he growled.

"Father, you know I am. Uther has turned them back and, being Uther, he is worrying at their heels like a dog baiting a bear. He'll drive them home to Cornwall and then he'll come back for more men to keep them there, confined in their wooden stronghold. You'll see. I'd be prepared to wager on it." That earned me a glowering glance and a sharp warning.

"That is exactly what you're doing, boy."

"Well," I said, changing the subject, "time will tell. What else is there?"

"This!" He indicated the parchment in front of him with a gesture of disgust and I knew we had come to the crux of this meeting. "Victorex has been dead how long? Ten years now? Since he died, no one has been able to give me a concise report on our strength of horses. No one. I have four reports here. Four separate responses to the same demands: How many head of stock do we possess in all and how is our breeding program progressing? The answers are all different, not even close to each other. The two furthest apart involve a difference of six hundred and twenty head. Six hundred and twenty! When I arrived back in Britain with Stilicho there were not that many horses in the Colony. Now we can misplace that number without even noticing, according to my own horsemasters!"

"Which do you believe to be most accurate?" I asked him. "Do we have so many that six hundred could be overlooked?"

He shook his head in frustration. "Caius, I have no way of knowing! That's what makes me so angry. I have no idea, and no one else has, either."

A progression of images flitted through my mind, pictures of the herds of horses that now seemed to be everywhere on our estates. "Surely there must be something we can do to remedy that, Father?"

He thumped his fist on the desk top. "There is. I want you, personally, to take a census of our livestock, starting immediately. I want an itemized head count of every animal on the Colony, particularly horses, but cattle as well. As far as the horses are concerned, I have to know how many battle mounts we have, as opposed to workhorses, and then I require information on our stud farms: how many stallions, mares and fillies; how many geldings; how many colts and foals; everything you can find. And I want it presented in a written report, detailing our entire resources, right down to the number of mares in foal." He pointed a rigid finger at me, underlining the importance of what he was about to say next. "This is not a task for delegation, Cay, it's far too important. I must have trustworthy numbers. That is why you are to do it in person. Your presence and authority will give this census an aura of official importance, which is exactly how I wish it to be perceived. It is vitally important. I want results as soon as possible. How long do you think you'll need?"

I stood up, shrugging my shoulders. "As long as it takes, I suppose. Certainly not less than a week and probably closer to two, by the time we visit all of the outlying farms and check the stock on each of them. It may take even longer than that. We do have a lot of horses nowadays."

'Talk to me of accurate numbers, Cay, not of lots. So be it. Start today, with the horses at hand here in the fort and stables. And be thorough, Caius. I want every head accounted for."

I nodded, saluted him, and left to go to the Armoury to collect my thoughts and make my plans. Two hours later I summoned a secretary and gave him the announcement I had prepared, instructing him to make twenty copies for my seal. It was a simple announcement to the commanders of each camp in the Colony, and to the masters of each farm, to gather all of their livestock in preparation for a visit of inspection by myself within a given period of days. When the secretary had gone about his business I relaxed and yawned, allowing myself to think about the pleasures I had enjoyed the previous night and savouring the image of Cassandra that burned clearly behind my eyes. In the course of my day-dreaming, I remembered my resolve to bring her something fine to wear and I sprang to my feet and made my way directly to my Aunt Luceiia's home.

The old lady was so happy to see me that I felt my usual guilt at spending so little time with her. She fussed over me, sending a servant to bring me wine, and seating me on her most comfortable chair. She chattered happily for some time about the affairs of her household before turning to my reasons for being there. As soon as she did that, I realized that she had known from the moment I walked in, with that infuriating percipience so often possessed by the elderly, that I had come to ask a favour. I know now it was ingenuous of me not to recognize that she must have determined my purpose immediately. From the very diffidence of my bearing, when I arrived, it would have required no great mental effort to conjecture that there was a woman involved.

She played for a while at guessing who it might be. She knew I had no trouble attracting any of the available women in the Colony, and once I had assured her that I was not in trouble with a jealous husband or paying my attentions to too young a girl, she became quite perplexed. I was on the point of confessing the truth when she suddenly spoke up.

"Wait! I have it!" Her face lit up. "The girl. What's her name! The mysterious one who disappeared from the guarded room after being ravaged and beaten so savagely. What was her name? Cassandra! That was it. You have her, don't you?"

I nodded, smiling with rueful admiration yet again at her perspicacity, and then I began haltingly to explain the entire circumstances of Cassandra's disappearance to my beloved great-aunt. I concealed nothing, telling her of my suspicions about Uther, even though it was an appalling admission in the face of her steadfast love for her grandson. She listened impassively, and when I had finished she sat silent, neither judging Uther nor condemning me for my lack of trust in my own family, although she seemed to have less difficulty than I did with my father's philosophy on the benefit of the doubt.

'Tell me," she asked eventually. "How do you feel about Uther? Do you have anger towards him in your heart?"

I shook my head slowly. "I don't think so, Auntie. Not anger. Confusion, more than anything. Your suspicion of the priest Remus makes far more sense to me than my suspicion of Uther's guilt. I wish we could have found that man, but we did not, and so the doubt remains. I will have to bring Uther and Cassandra face to face one of these days. That's the only way I'm going to know for sure, and the thought of doing it appals me."

· I had one more confession to make, and that was my love for Cassandra. That stumbling admission melted my great-aunt's heart while turning my face redder than a berry. Aunt Luceiia's expression was deeply serious and sympathetic. Did I wish to bring Cassandra to Camulod to live with her? She would be delighted to have her. I explained my reservations on that score, claiming expediency and the ease of safeguarding Cassandra in secrecy, rather than my own selfishness and my too rational fear of losing her, and Aunt Luceiia accepted them.

"Well, if you don't seek shelter for her, what did you come to ask me for?"

I cleared my throat. "Clothing. She has only one garment, Auntie, and it is a poor, rough thing. I had hoped you might be willing to let her have something old of your own, which would surely fit her."

She smiled gently, a look of mild disbelief crossing her face. "Clothing? Is that all? Well, I can see your point. If she is to winter out of doors she'll need more than one shift. Come with me. Give me your arm, and we'll see if I have any rags lying around that she can have."

I supported her by the arm, feeling the fragile weight of her, and she led me into her dressing room, where she uncovered chest upon chest of women's clothing.

"What colour are her eyes?"

"Grey."

"And her hair?"

"Fair."

"Fair! Is that the best you can do?"

"I think so. It's not yellow, nor is it golden. It is fair."

She sorted swiftly through the contents of her chests, throwing the occasional garment at me until my arms were full. Finally she stopped.

"There," she said. "That ought to do her for a while."

"All of these? Aunt Luceiia, these are beautiful! They're far—"

She cut me short. 'Too fine? Is that what you were going to say?" I nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. "Shame on you, Caius Britannicus. You would have me believe you love this girl, and then tell me these things are too fine for her? If she has what it takes to enthral you, Nephew, dressed in only a simple shift, then these things are not good enough for her."

She paused, eyeing me with her head to one side, and then she sniffed and turned quickly away, but not before I had seen the twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "I shall have to meet this young woman," she said, over her shoulder. "If she won't come to me, then I shall find a way to go to her. Now, those are all light things. She will need some heavy woollens for cold weather, and I have just the thing." She crossed the room and began to sort through another wealth of clothing, all of these heavier than the ones I held, and the pile in my arms grew cumbersome. She finished it off with a magnificent, heavy, hooded cloak of thick, white wool that would shut out a winter storm completely. Finally, she was satisfied. "Good. Bring all of these back into the family room. Ludella will pack them in a chest and you can send a soldier for it in an hour or so. It should sit on your horse's rump, so you'll have no problem transporting it. Now. Is there anything else she needs?"

I could think of nothing else, and thanked her profusely, but she waved my thanks away.

"Now give me a kiss and let me get about my business. I have company coming."

I grinned at her. "A secret assignation?"

"No. A priest."

"More priests, Auntie? Haven't you got enough of those?"

"Don't be impertinent. Kiss me and go."

I did as she bade me, feeling much better than I had in coming.

Back at my quarters I called in the guard on duty and told him to have my prisoner brought to me under escort and to send the Legate Titus to me immediately. By the time I heard the approach of marching feet, I had signed the copies of my orders on the horse census and was finishing my instructions to Titus, who glanced curiously at the giant young Scot, saluted me smartly and left to begin the count of the livestock in the fort. I looked up at my prisoner.

He stood erect, a portrait of pride and indifference, staring at a spot somewhere above my head. His escorts flanked him, standing stiffly at attention.

'Thank you," I said to them, "you can wait outside." They withdrew, closing the doors behind them. I let young Donuil stand there as I returned to the documents in front of me, giving them one more unnecessary reading. Finally, I sat back and crossed my legs. "Well, Prince Donuil, what do you think of Camulod so far?"

He did not answer, so I rose and crossed to the window, turning my back on him deliberately, fully aware of the sword I had left lying on the table top within his reach. The shutters were open and I looked for some moments at the life going on outside. There was no sound of movement from behind me. I turned back and faced him. He had not moved a muscle. I crossed my arms in front of me and spoke to him again, weighting my voice only slightly with an edge of ill humour.

"Are you being sullen just to bait me? Or do you regret your bargain already? Your presence here spared the lives of more than a thousand men. Do you intend to celebrate that by spending five years in silence? And in a cell?" Still no response. I went back to my seat and sat there, staring at him in silence, fully prepared to wait him out. I had nothing to lose but time and it was on my side. The silence stretched and grew until it approached the point where stubbornness became a matter of pride, but I was prepared for that. Just before I judged that time to have arrived, I picked up a small wooden hammer and rang the brass gong on my table top. The door opened immediately and the guard stepped into the room.

"Commander?"

"Ask the centurion of the guard to send a messenger to me at once."

The guard left and we returned to the waiting game, and this time I busied myself with one of my uncle's codexes until I heard a knock at the door.

"Come!"

A trooper stepped into the room. "Centurion Tertius sent me, Commander."

"Good. Please go at once to the quarters of my aunt, Luceiia Varrus, and collect a chest that she has there for me. If it is not ready, wait for it and take it to my sleeping quarters. You will be expected."

"Yes, Commander." He, too, left and I spoke again to Prince Donuil.

"Obviously you have nothing to say. Do you wish to return to your cell?" No flicker of reaction, so I went on, "I had thought to have offered you better quarters, but since you seem to have no interest in being civil I can only assume you are comfortable enough where you are presently lodged. You surprise me. Five years can be a longtime, behind bars." That reached him. He frowned and glanced sidelong at me.

"What kind of better quarters?"

I resisted an impulse to smile at him. "Open ones, for a start. Not quite fit for a prince, but comfortable enough for a princely prisoner."

"What would I have to do?" His voice was heavy with suspicion, wondering what price I would exact of him for any relaxation of vigilance. "If I were to accept these better quarters, what would you expect of me?"

I shrugged one shoulder. "Little more than you have already promised. I have your word that you won't attempt escape. Now, in return for your co-operation, I could permit you a room of your own, with privacy."

"Co-operation?" I could tell from his voice he knew I was about to name my price. "What would this co-operation consist of?"

"An end to this sullenness of yours, for one thing. There is no need for it, and it simply breeds suspicion and dislike." He blinked and was silent for a moment, obviously confused and trying to hide it.

"And? What else?"

"A willingness to contribute to the life of this Colony while you are part of it."

"Contribute? What form of contribution?"

"Work of some kind, not necessarily menial. We all contribute, every one of us, each according to his abilities."

He looked sceptical. "Even you?"

"Of course!" I laughed. "Even my father, the General. There are no parasites in Camulod."

I could not identify the tone that now coloured his voice. "What does your father do?"

"He is Administrator and Commander-in-Chief of our forces. He heads the Council of Governors of the Colony."

"And you, what do you do?"

"I assist my father. I keep records. I command a regiment. And I count horses."

His face went blank with surprise. "You what?"

"Count horses. I have just been charged with taking a census of all the horses that the Colony owns."

"You have that many horses?" His eyes showed wonderment. "How long will that take?"

I made a face to show my ignorance of that answer. "I do not know. In truth, I have no idea. A week, perhaps two, if nothing unexpected happens, like another raid, to interrupt the task."

His face creased into a frown. "What could I do? I have no training in any kind of work such as you describe, and I will not work with my hands like a bondsman."

"I didn't think you would, nor would I ask you to, but there must be something you can do. Do you have skills with iron?"

"You mean making it? No."

"Can you write and read?"

"No."

"Can you relax?" He blinked at me and I signalled towards the chair in front of him. "Sit down, you are too tall to gaze up at constantly." He sat down slowly and I picked up the sword that lay on the table and unsheathed it, laying it before him. "Look at it," I said. "This sword was made by my own great-uncle, Publius Varrus, a master smith. He was a soldier and a founder of this Colony, but he worked with his hands in metal all his life and saw no shame in it." I slipped the blade back into the sheath. "Every man has skills that are all his own, Donuil. Here, in our Colony, we ask that each man use his skills for the benefit of everyone, earning in return the right to live here, sharing in the Colony's prosperity. By making your own contribution you would be earning your keep—no more, no less. You will be asked to do nothing that could embarrass you or cause you to feel guilt in any way. You will not be asked, for example, to fight against your people, should they raid our lands again, although such an event would itself place you in a bad position, since your presence here means that we are at peace with Hibemia for five years."

"No! That's not true." There was urgency in his voice and he shook his head tersely. "You are at peace with my people, but not with all my countrymen. We have many kings on our island and few of them are friends. The fact that you hold me as hostage will mean nothing to the other kings. They have no love for me or for my people. They war with us as much as they do with Britain."

"Hmm!" I gnawed at my lower lip as though this had not occurred to me. "That could be awkward. How will we know that any future raiders are not of your people?"

The young man held his head high. "My father's standard is a black galley set on a field of gold. All of our ships carry it. My people will stay clear of you and your lands."

"Good." I nodded to him. "I believe you. But we have lost our track. Would you be willing to consider taking part in some way in the life of Camulod?"

He looked me in the eye. "Aye, Caius Merlyn, but there is a problem."

"What is that?"

"I do not have your Roman-British tongue. You are the only man I've met so far that I can talk to."

"Then you will have to work with me, somehow, until you learn our language. Will that gall you?" His face broke out slowly, but not reluctantly, into a smile.

"No, I think not."

"Good, then there is no problem. How old are you?"

"Seventeen. Almost eighteen."

I whistled my surprise. "You're a big lad for your age. Think about this. Consider what you might do that you can see as being of help to me and we will talk again tomorrow." As I said this, my door burst open and my father strode into the room, his face like thunder. He stopped short when he saw that I had company and looked from Donuil to me, making no sign of greeting to either one of us.

"Caius. When you are free, come to my quarters." He left as suddenly as he had come, closing the door behind him and I wondered what had upset him so. As soon as he had gone I turned back to my prisoner.

"So be it. Think on what I have said until tomorrow. In the meantime, I will have Legate Titus assign you to a room of your own. As of this moment, you are free to move about the fort, but be careful. Remember your own point about the language problem. In fact, it might be better not to wander off on your own until I have had time to show you around. I will do that tomorrow, too. Now I have to go and meet with my father and find out what has upset him. Come with me.

I'll take you to Titus on the way and have him fix you up." I stepped to the door and held it open, and as he passed in front of me to leave, I stopped him with my free hand on his arm. "Welcome to Camulod," I told him, smiling. "I think you may like it here, once you get used to it." I offered him my hand and saw no reluctance in his face as he shook it.